The lady behind the counter smiled kindly at him. ‘You look hungry, lad,’ she said.
Tommy could only nod dumbly in reply. The lady took a bun off a tray and handed it to him with a wink.
‘There, now, off you go,’ she said.
Gratefully, he stuffed the bun into his mouth. He guessed that the lady thought he was a homeless orphan; he probably looked like it, with his hair full of grass and his clothes all dirty and rumpled. Tommy didn’t mind. The bun tasted like Heaven. He was heading back out the door with a mouth full of bun, when a man burst into the shop. He was well-dressed and middle-aged, with fair hair and angry blue eyes.
‘It’s an outrage!’ the man shouted, shaking his fists. He spoke with a heavy foreign accent.
‘What is it, Mr Bruun?’ the kind lady behind the counter asked.
Bruun! That was Ludwig’s surname! Tommy stopped and turned back in to the shop. The man was pacing and breathing heavily.
‘Zere was an armed robbery at ze bank last night!’ he shouted. ‘My son was held up at gunpoint!’
The lady tried to calm him down. ‘I heard the news,’ she told him. ‘It’s all over town. It’s a terrible business; we all feel sorry for poor Ludwig.’
‘No, no, you don’t understand!’ Mr Bruun cried. ‘Zey have arrested my son! My Ludwig!’
‘But he was the victim!’ Tommy cried. Bits of bun sprayed from his mouth and he tried to catch them and stuff them back in. He didn’t want to waste any of it. The man spun around and saw Tommy for the first time.
‘Vot do you know of zis?’ he demanded.
‘I saw it,’ Tommy replied. ‘I saw the man pointing a gun at him.’
The man’s mouth fell open. ‘And you vill tell ze police?’ he said. ‘You vill tell zem zat my Ludwig iss no robber?’
‘Sure,’ said Tommy. ‘Lead the way.’
Mr Bruun grabbed Tommy’s arm and marched him out the door. They strode down the road, Tommy trotting to keep up with Mr Bruun, who was almost tearing his arm out of its socket. At last they came to a building with the sign ‘POLICE STATION’ above the door. The man dragged Tommy inside. A man in a blue uniform with shiny buttons was sitting behind a desk. When he saw Mr Bruun, he rose with a frown.
‘Police!’ Mr Bruun nudged Tommy. ‘Tell ze Constable Monckton vot you saw!’
The policeman looked Tommy up and down. Tommy felt suddenly awkward. He knew he looked terrible; his clothes were dirty and his hair was matted with grass, and he probably had bits of chewed bun on his chin. But he pulled himself together and tried to tell the policeman what he had seen.
When he came to the end of the story he said in a small voice, ‘So Ludwig didn’t steal the gold from the bank. You have arrested the wrong man … Sir.’
The policeman leaned against his desk with folded arms and looked down his nose at the scruffy boy. ‘I see,’ he said. His voice was icy. ‘So you think you know all about policing then, do you?’
‘No, no, Constable Monckton … Sir …’ Tommy said. ‘But …’
‘But? I suppose you can tell me who the robber really was?’
‘Yes!’ Tommy replied eagerly. ‘Yes, his name is Andrew George Scott!’
‘Aha,’ the Constable smiled but his grin was not friendly. ‘Andrew George Scott, the preacher.’
‘That’s right!’
The policeman shook his head and glared at Tommy. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Ludwig has already accused the preacher. We went straight to Scott’s home last night and surprised him as he was getting ready for bed. He’d just come back from Melbourne and was very upset to hear of these outrageous accusations from his friend.’
‘But it’s true!’ Tommy shouted.
‘Stop wasting my time,’ the Constable hissed. ‘You filthy urchin. Go! Out! Shoo!’
The policeman herded Tommy and Mr Bruun out the door. Ludwig’s father’s voice was thick with tears as he parted with Tommy. The old man shook Tommy’s hand and vowed, ‘Ve vill fight this!’
Tommy was hot with rage. As he stomped away from the police station, a thought came to him. He would help Ludwig fight it. But to do that he needed a cool head. And to keep a cool head, he needed the help of a friend who was wise and calm. He needed to go back and fetch Martin. There was no time to waste; he yanked the hat off his head and disappeared.
Martin could tell that something was up.
‘You’ve been back to the past again, haven’t you?’ he asked. The boys were still out on the dark, deserted street just as they had been when Tommy left.
Tommy nodded. ‘Martin, you’ve got to come back with me!’ he said. Then he told his friend the whole story.
Martin listened in silence and, when Tommy was finished, he stayed silent a little longer. Tommy could tell that he was struggling; Martin didn’t like the danger of travelling to the past – but he could always be counted on to help a friend.
At last he sighed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But can we just get those takeaways first?’
Tommy laughed. He’d forgotten that Martin hadn’t eaten. Come to think of it, he was still pretty hungry too. The boys found a noodle shop and bought enough to feed an army. They took the feast back to the motel to share with Tommy’s dad, who was still busy at work and had hardly noticed that they were gone. After dinner, they decided to wait until morning to return to
